A poem by the late poet, Claude Martin. In 1973, at the gentle age of 23, the young poet was found dead in his small Los Angeles apartment - before any fame or recognition had floated his way. His death remains a mystery - a murder mystery. A known gambler and drinker and dancer, he had many dark acquaintances.

With a thought, the Poet rose from a bed of grime.To the know thy future, To know thy lineWould be the most horrid passing of time.

To know, everyday,What a man would do, What a woman would say,Untying the knot of each latent play.

To know where it all would start, And how it all would endWould be the slowest passing,The straightest bend.